


and what did I do? I thought about you

by elizabethelizabeth



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 1950s, Dancing, Fluff, Jazz Age, Kissing, M/M, Pining, Post-Canon, Romantic Tension, Slow Dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-26 14:49:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21375865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizabethelizabeth/pseuds/elizabethelizabeth
Summary: “Jazz?”“Jazz.”“You don’t listen to jazz, Angel.”“Well if you say it then it must be true.”
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 52
Kudos: 236





	and what did I do? I thought about you

**Author's Note:**

> canon: angels and demons cannot dance  
me: I get that, but...what if

**1957**

Crowley could have called, but he was in the neighborhood.

Yeah, that sounded believable. 

Crowley got the news earlier that day, via his radio, that he was due in Kazakhstan next week with a vague notion of making sure something went correctly. He didn’t really pay attention, something to do with the Soviets. Damn Cold War was really interfering with his off time, what he could get of it. However, he had a feeling that Aziraphale would also be due in Kazakhstan around the same time. It happened that way, Hell and Heaven both getting notices that  _ something _ was going on up above or down below, and both sides would send their respective operative to aid or abate. 

So, Kazakhstan. He could have called, argued over the phone with the angel about whose turn it was. He was in the neighborhood, though. He finalized the excuse as he exited the Bentley and walked to the door of A. Z. Fell & Co. September had been uncommonly wet throughout, but the night was clear and cloudless. Crowley might have felt warm in his leather jacket, if he ever did get warm, which he didn’t. Ignoring the store’s  _ Closed  _ sign, Crowley let himself in.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley called, his voice quickly absorbed by books and the walls around him.

“Crowley, is that you? I was about to be very cross, I thought you were a customer.”

“Yeah, the worst thing I could have been. A  _ customer _ .” If Aziraphale hears his sarcasm, he doesn’t respond to it. “Where are you?”

“In the back, near the  _ Kells _ .”

Crowley has no idea what a Kells is, but follows the sound of Aziraphale’s voice to the further corner of the bookshop. He freezes when he catches sight of Aziraphale, not quite believing his eyes. “What the  _ heaven _ is that?”

Aziraphale didn’t look up from his task, which was running a cloth over a dusty-gold encased Victrola turntable. “It’s a phonograph, my dear boy. Goodness, but you’re behind the times.”

“I’m behind—” Crowley croaked out a few previously unstringable consonants together. “It’s a record player, Angel. No one calls it a ‘phonograph.’” Crowley manages a very poor impression of Aziraphale, but it’s the effort that counts. “Why do you have one?”

“Crowley, honestly. You listen to music with it.” He lifts his gaze up towards Crowley, towering over him. Crowley can see the ghost of a smirk on Aziraphale’s face, which is infuriating. “I would have expected you to know that.”

Crowley has to stammer his words out while he gathers his thoughts, which mostly center on the  _ nerve _ of the Angel to assume Crowley isn’t wholly caught up on modern technology and trends. Drives the newest, nicest car, dressed down in the fashion of jeans and cotton tees and leather jackets—all black, naturally. He might not have invented radio, but he did invent ad reads between songs. Crowley is the very definition of modern, and to be called otherwise is blasphemous. “I know what they’re for, I want to know why  _ you  _ have one.” 

Aziraphale finally looks a little embarrassed, standing to face Crowley fully. “Well, if you must know,” Crowley must know. “You know I prefer live music over recordings any day—”

“Is the Royal Philharmonic finally running out of symphonies to play?” 

“—but there are just some musicians who don’t come to London very often.” Aziraphale now looked deliciously indignant, which gave Crowley endless amusement. “If you’re going to tease, perhaps I won’t allow you to listen.”

“Oh, yes, I’ll sorely miss out on the heavenly melodies playing on repeat.”

“It’s Billie Holiday, actually, but you’d not be the first to call her voice angelic.”

Now  _ that _ , that did finally get Crowley to shut up, but not for very long. Crowley blinked, slowly and owlish, before finally managing to say “Jazz?”

“Jazz,” Aziraphale says.

“You don’t listen to  _ jazz _ , Angel.” 

“Well if you say it then it must be true.”

“That’s,” Crowley lets out even more nonsense words, stammering around his incredulity. “Jazz?”

“Ms. Holiday was here a few years ago, I think you’ll remember. It was her first Europe tour. I’ll admit, I wasn’t keen on jazz at first,” which was Crowley’s fault entirely, if not Hell as a whole. The best of musicians, including the composers of the previously mentioned symphonies, had all been influenced one way or another by demonic whispers, by Crowley’s charm and sibilant slurring of inspiration. “But even you have to admit, there’s a certain air of worship to it.”

“Demon worship, maybe.”

“No,” and Aziraphale has a way of stating his opinions as if they’re indisputable facts, immediately convincing Crowley. “No, it’s something else. Her voice, it’s quite…” Aziraphale trails off, before beaming. “Well, I’ll show you.” From the corner hidden to Crowley, Aziraphale produces a record, shiny and new. “Had a time finding this, I must say. Had to go to three different shops before I found it, sold out almost everywhere!”

“Could’ve miracled any bloody record you wanted into existence,” Crowley says, mumbled in Aziraphale’s general direction as he slumps onto the nearest chair.

“Perhaps, but there’s no fun in that.”

“A hedon and a heathen.”

Aziraphale ignores Crowley fully in favor of placing the record gingerly on the player, needle air bound until a faint pop of noise tells of its descent.

A bombastic trumpet announces the lady’s arrival, and she sings the blues.

And it’s… well, Aziraphale was right, if adjacently. The growled lows and breathy heights of Billie’s voice are akin to hymnals of the highest order, but the trumpet, with a perpendicular journey of its own, complements in only a way demons can influence. 

Crowley watches as Aziraphale moves across the room, placing himself between Crowley’s line of sight to the Victrola. He’s smiling softer now, swaying ever so imperceptibly in place. “What do you think?”

Crowley loves it. He’s heard of Billie of course, had heard of her larger than life performance of a few years past, but had yet to hear the true power of her voice. He’s jealous of Aziraphale, who somehow managed to hear this effervescent crooning in person. “S’alright I guess.”

From the way Aziraphale’s smile grows, Crowley can tell he hasn’t deflected enough to convince, but Crowley can’t be bothered to prove any otherwise.

The songs blend into each other and Crowley is seated, stayed and transfixed. Aziraphale stays standing, humming along to lyrics he’s obviously heard before:  _ He’s hot as Hades, ladies _ and  _ Some other spring when twilight falls _ . There’s a familiar curling in Crowley’s chest, and unfolding of repression. He could stop it, halt it in its tracks, turn away from Aziraphale’s blissed expression and closed eyes. He doesn’t though, due to equal parts masochism and fascination.

The trumpet introduction to  _ Strange Fruit  _ begins, and Crowley inhales sharply. “I know this one,” and he is suddenly, uncomfortably aware of the hairs on his arms standing on end, of Aziraphale’s eyes on him.

“One of her famous ones yes.” Aziraphale doesn’t speak as Billie sings, giving her voice welcome to the wood-lined, book-cushioned room.

Neither of them breathes until the song is over.

“Shit,” is the only response Crowley has.

He’s expecting a reprimand, but Aziraphale surprises him by replying “Indeed.”

The record pops rhythmically, signaling the end of Side A.

“Well?”

“She’s… yeah, she’s good.”

Aziraphale beams again before moving to turn the record over. “I thought you might think so.”

And that’s new, isn’t it? Aziraphale, however adjacently, thinking of Crowley in a moment unrelated to the minutiae of Heaven-and-Hell. It further unravels something hidden in the core of Crowley’s self.

Crowley has time to breathe as the next few songs play out, no trumpets paralleling Crowley’s fast-beating heart, but it doesn’t stop him from continuing to stare at Aziraphale’s swaying form. Suddenly, quite without stopping, Aziraphale begins to take off his jacket, throws it carefully onto the wingback next to the record player. Crowley wants to swear, wants to dig his fingers into the threadbare cloth of the sofa. If he still had claws, he’d be marking the fabric unknowingly with the pressure he holds on. It shouldn’t be sinful, the simple motion of Aziraphale removing a layer of clothing, but it  _ is  _ all the same. Damned heart, damned want.

Aziraphale holds out his hand, in time with  _ Love me or leave me or let me be lonely _ , a small, shy smile radiating and warming. “Dance with me?”

Immediately, stumbling slightly, Crowley stands. “Angels don’t dance,” he says by way of an excuse, giving himself time to compose himself and failing spectacularly at it.

“I do,” says Aziraphale by way of explanation, and that’s good enough for Crowley.

Crowley knows, academically, the steps and sways of dances throughout history, and understands the Jive and the Jitterbug of today’s swinging movement, but he has no rhythm. Aziraphale has learned exactly one dance, and learned it almost one hundred years ago, and has no rhythm beyond those learned motions. Neither of these excuses stops the two of them from moving closer, Crowley’s right hand nestled in Aziraphale’s right, and Crowley is not bothered by Aziraphale leading for some reason that he’ll unpack later. Much later.

Crowley has to stop himself from making some sort of undignified noise when Aziraphale’s other hand lands on his waist and tries not to fixate on how very hot it is in the bookshop.

Billie taunts and teases with  _ Your love is my love there’s no love for somebody else _ as an angel and a demon both begin to move in time, or something resembling it. It’s not a coordinated dance, nor does it have a name, but they have the steps memorized all the same.

“I told you I did.”

“I stand corrected.”

“Mark this day,” Aziraphale turns the two of them perpendicular to the sound. “Crowley admitted that Aziraphale was, in fact, Right.”

“Angels aren’t supposed to tease, either.” Crowley takes a chance to spin them around again, fingers imperceptibly tightening into the cloth of Aziraphale’s jacket, wants to further tease and ask what would Heaven think, but has an inkling that it might ruin the mood.

The time signature picks up with  _ You’re just too marvelous, too marvelous for words  _ and Billie is right, with that. Crowley cannot stop the swell of fondness that grows with each measure and rhyme. The synchronicity of two continues uninterrupted, dancing and turning. Crowley laughs as Aziraphale twirls him to another  _ too marvelous _ , moves quickly so as to not miss any of the angel’s expressive face. He has to duck under Aziraphale’s arm to do so, but it’s charming and wonderful. Aziraphale is  _ glowing _ , smiling bright enough that Crowley might actually need the tortoise shell lenses he’s currently sporting. Crowley cannot stop himself from staring openly now, doesn’t have the time to marvel at his un-stepped-upon toes or that Aziraphale’s fingers have matched the pressure of Crowley’s own. He can only stare at Aziraphale’s pale blue eyes, which are fixed, unblinking back at him, even at the music moves merrily long and the dancing pair along with it.

Crowley misses the feeling of Aziraphale hand as it moves away from his waist, but is immediately shocked to stillness as Aziraphale’s fingers brush against his cheek, removing Crowley’s glasses, the albums cadence slowed considerably in the background. “You’re indoors, my dear boy. No need for these right now,” he says, and places them, folded, into the pocket of Crowley’s jacket. His fingers linger there, too, brushing so that Crowley’s skin seems to alight.

The music has slowed and Crowley has long since stopped paying attention to the lyrics and chords, can barely hear anything save his and Aziraphale’s breath intermixed in the heavy air,  _ whisper to the wind and say that love has sinned _ , what are these blasphemous words that betray Crowley’s heart? 

Taking a chance, terrified, Crowley adjusts to wrap both arms around Aziraphale’s shoulders, hoping to powers above and below that his shaking isn’t noticeable. Aziraphale’s eyes widen, but he moves in tandem, holding now even more closely to Crowley’s waist, then to wrap his arms around. They are close, closer than they both should be comfortable with. They are no longer dancing or participating in some imitation of it. They are just swaying back and forth, staring openly. Crowley knows he’s testing limits, his and Aziraphale’s both, and perhaps some of social decorum as well, but his wild heart, erratic, is overwhelming sense. Crowley moves in slow motion, drunk on proximity, to feel the feathered hair at the base of Aziraphale’s head, brushing against his neck,  _ bent your branches down along the ground and cover me _ , his fingertips graze skin and Crowley swears that he leaves sparks in the wake of his movement.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, voice a mixture of breathless and another emotion that Crowley can’t immediately identify,  _ and I thought about you _ .

Crowley grows bolder, moving his grasp up, fully lost in Aziraphale’s hair,  _ and I thought about you _ .

“My dear, Crowley.” Crowley cannot stop the sound he makes at Aziraphale’s epithet, said with such expectant desire, and Crowley knows he’s not imagining things,  _ and with each beam, the same old dream _ . 

“Angel.” Crowley finally speaks, his own appellation for Aziraphale pales in comparison to the broken way Aziraphale repeats his name, a repentance,  _ the one going back to you, and what did I do? _

The music in the background stops, fading out. The needlepoint catches on nothing and creates sound anyway. Crowley pushes closer, imagines himself tasting Aziraphale’s teeth and wordsmith tongue, the same tongue that teased him mercilessly not minutes ago, can feel the humidity of Aziraphale’s breath as he speaks. “Darling, Crowley, please, we can’t—”

Crowley freezes, the drumbeat of  _ want, want, I want you  _ suddenly replaced by a new chorus of  _ stupid, stupid, wrong _ and Crowley pulls away, hyperaware of the sweat on his palms and fear radiating, replacing. The bookshop is pin-drop silent. He clears his throat. “Right.” He hates how wrecked he sounds, voice undone by desire, limbs set rigid by dancing of all things. Crowley takes a step back and hates the distance between him and Aziraphale. “Right,” he says again. “I’ll be off.”

“Crowley—”

“It’s fine, angel,” which is a lie, but that’s what Crowley does best. “Uh, Kazakhstan. I’m due there next week. You?”

“Just got the notice this morning.”

“I’ll take it.” No room for arguments there. He needed to get out of town, away from...just away.

“Oh, my dear fellow, are you sure? I do believe it was my—”

“S’fine, ’Ziraphale.” Crowley forces a slow breath, noticing his own hissing and hoping Aziraphale didn’t. “Feel like getting out of town. Call me with the details, yeah?” On a last minute impulse, he snaps his fingers at the golden Victrola, and there’s another record lying next to it. “Have a listen to that, will you? Chuck Berry, new kid. If you like jazz, you’ll like him.” He’s rambling. Crowley walks backwards, gives himself the luxury of staring at Aziraphale one more time as he retreats, puts on his sunglasses. “We’ll have lunch when I get back, yeah?”

“Of course.” Aziraphale smiles as he answers, which is obviously the absolute worst thing he could have done, but Crowley wouldn’t dare complain. “I’ll call.”

“Do,” is the last thing Crowley says before he shuts the door behind him. 

He manages to make it to the door of the Bentley, sags against it, stares at his still-shaking hands. “Fuck.” He runs those same hands through his hair, stares at the closed door and golden light of Aziraphale’s haven. “Bloody fuck.” Years, innumerable years spent pushing down lust and want and  _ feelings _ , all for naught, all undone in less than an hour.

Crowley forces himself to breathe slowly, even though the action burns in his chest. 

Kazakhstan. Maybe he’ll stay awhile, away. He needs time to forget the brush of Aziraphale’s fingers and the steam of his breath. Needs time to forget, once again, how far he’s fallen in quite a different way. 

**2019**

Later, much later, many things happen in quick succession. Crowley asks Aziraphale to run away with him, Aziraphale refuses, Crowley goes after Aziraphale, Aziraphale disappears, Crowley mopes in a pub, Aziraphale reappears, and then they stop Armageddon.

Aziraphale also snogs Crowley senseless after their lunch at the Ritz, which was nice. Quite nice.  _ Extremely  _ nice.

And later, after that, they’re on the sofa in Aziraphale’s newly renovated bookshop. Crowley is curled cat-like, veritably sprawling while Aziraphale sits proper, but his fingers are tracing, slightly improperly, the curve of Crowley’s tattoo. Aziraphale is taking lazy inventory from their perch, and Crowley is watching him purely because he can. Sunglasses-less, because he doesn’t have to hide himself staring anymore. 

Again, extremely nice, this.

“Oh!” Aziraphale makes a delighted sound. “My record collection is still intact!” 

Crowley looks toward the Victrola, now vintage, but immaculately kept. It’s surrounded by haphazard stacks of records in their cases, no rhyme or reason. Crowley has an urge to tidy them and place them color-coordinated, but there’s another matter entirely on his mind. “Didn’t realize you’d collected so many, Angel.”

“I’ll confess, many of them are classical composers. I concentrate better with a symphony on.” Aziraphale doesn’t stop caressing Crowley’s temple. “I still have the Chuck Berry album you so kindly gifted.”

Crowley pushes down the instinct to deflect.  _ What? Oh, that old thing? I’d forgotten.  _ “D’you ever listen to it?”

Aziraphale doesn’t answer immediately. Crowley shifts, adjusting so he can see Aziraphale’s face above his, and it’s flushed an appealing shade of pink. “Many, many times, Crowley.”

Crowley slithers off Aziraphale—was that a noise of protest he heard?—and moves to kneel at the record stacks, thumbing through them until he sees the blue-red-gold of  _ After School Session _ . The cover is well kept, but also well-loved by the fraying at the cover’s edges. Crowley grins at Aziraphale over his shoulder. “Didn’t really expect you like this album, Angel. Just on the fringes of bebop.”

“You wouldn’t have given to me if you thought I wouldn’t like it.”

Crowley doesn’t argue, because Aziraphale is right. He stands, places the record on the Victrola, snaps his fingers so it comes to life, steel guitar twanging. Back to Aziraphale, Crowley immediately moves his hips in time, exaggerated and slightly lascivious. 

Aziraphale laughs, not unkindly. “You’re ridiculous, my dear.”

Crowley shimmies backwards,  _ round and round and round we go _ , spins around a few times just for good measure. He notes Aziraphale’s still-present blush on each go around. “Payback, angel. You seduced me to Billie Holiday, now it’s time for your comeuppance.” He starts snapping his fingers, intentionally off-beat.

“By you gyrating to Chuck Berry?”

“You love it.” He spins once more until he’s facing Aziraphale, never once stopping the movement of his hips. Indeed, the gyrating only gets more pronounced. 

“I love you.”

Crowley freezes, halfway through a pronounced pelvic thrust, and it’s his turn to blush. “That’s...that’s cheating!”

“What is?”

“You can’t tell me you love me while I’m dancing like an idiot!”

“But I love you very much while you’re dancing like an idiot.”

Crowley stands to full height, is only slightly nervous at the change between them. He snaps his fingers in a vague gesture behind him, and the record skips to the next song. His other hand he holds out to Aziraphale. “Dance with me?” He burns as he asks, remembering when their places were reversed. The rhythm to this song is slower, no less guitar driven, but it’s one of Crowley’s favorites. Judging from Aziraphale’s expression, he feels the same way about this specific song. 

Aziraphale takes Crowley’s hand, and the overlap of now and the seventy-year-old memory of their last dance meld together. Aziraphale’s hand is on his hip, his left hand held tightly in Aziraphale’s grasp, but there are differences. Crowley takes a chance, leans down to place his forehead against the angel’s. Aziraphale’s hand goes searching, finds bare skin beneath Crowley’s shirt. Crowley doesn’t waste time pressing close to Aziraphale, fulfilling the craving of intimacy he’s held onto since that night, since the beginning of the world. 

“I love you, too, yeah?” Crowley phrases things like questions when he’s unsure, which is a character flaw he’s not particularly proud of, since it’s a flaw he didn’t craft himself. “Like, a lot. I love you a lot.”

“I know, my darling.”

“Haaa,” Crowley has to make an unintelligible sound before he continues talking. “Yeah, I uh...that night. Nineteen fifty-seven. I might have pushed you too far.”

“Perish the thought.” Aziraphale leads them in a slow turn, never once breaking contact with Crowley’s gaze. “If you pushed me, then I pushed right back. I wanted you that night.”

The confession makes Crowley stumble, cursing, and Aziraphale is very kind and does not laugh once. “Can’t just  _ say _ shit like that, Angel.”

“It’s the truth.” Aziraphale lifts the hand on Crowley’s waist, and Crowley immediately misses the warmth, but it’s short lived as Aziraphale only snaps his fingers to change the song again, _ I saw you over there but what could I do? _ and then right back to Crowley’s skin. “How could I not want you, Crowley? Especially in the fifties, goodness. Slicked-back hair and leather, blushing when I asked you to dance with me.”

“Didn’t blush,” Crowley says, belied by that same blush blooming across his cheeks. “Don’t blame you for pushing me away. Wasn’t the right time.”

“While I agree,” Aziraphale stops them at that, wrapping his arm fully around Crowley, bringing them flush together. His other hand moves to trace Crowley’s jaw, handling him with the same gloved-reverence as a first-edition tome, “you know how I hate to deny myself what I want.”

The heart that Crowley doesn’t need pounds in his chest, and he’s glad of it, because surely Aziraphale can hear the bloodrush, know how affected Crowley is by the words, and loves that he trusts Aziraphale enough to allow himself to be known. “Nothing stopping you now, Aziraphale.”

“No, indeed.” Aziraphale wastes no time in surging forward, and Crowley meets him there, arms wrapped around Aziraphale’s shoulders, selfish and selfless in his want. Crowley is lost to this, the taste of Aziraphale’s tongue against his, and makes an undignified noise when Aziraphale pulls away to speak. “I’m sorry I made you wait, Crowley.”

“Shut up.” A fierce kiss to Aziraphale’s lips. “Please.” One to Aziraphale’s reddened cheek. “No more talking.” Back to Aziraphale’s lips, focus on his full bottom lip and the way it gives, deliciously so, when Crowley bites down. The angel talks so much and so well, and Crowley has long wondered if he could accurately silence him.

“Quite,” Aziraphale breathes out, and neither of them talk for quite awhile after that. The turntable plays static to Aziraphale and Crowley’s new dance. 

**Author's Note:**

> Had the boys dancing to Billie Holiday's "Lady Sings the Blues" album in 1957, and Chuck Berry's "After School Session" in 2019. "I Thought About You" by Billie Holiday is the most important ineffable husbands song, fight me.
> 
> um, wow, I've been in this fandom for ten years and I'm extra emotional about how many people now love these characters as much as I do.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[PODFIC] and what did I do? I thought about you](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21797713) by [miss_echidna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_echidna/pseuds/miss_echidna)


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